by KJ Charles
“…and get him fucking now, you scrofulous, shit-stained syphilitic discards of a substandard brothel!” he bellowed after the three men who were fleeing out of the room, leaving one terrified guard flattening himself against the wall. He turned back to Stephen, whose expression was absolutely neutral. His colleagues looked somewhere between astonished and appalled. The girl was grinning.
“They weren’t very cooperative,” Crane explained. “The shamans are unavailable, they said. They should be getting a headman now, someone in authority, to tell me what the problem is.”
“What are shamans?” asked the burly young man. He had a deep voice and an uncompromising look.
“A shaman is a Chinese practitioner,” Stephen said. “Let me introduce you. Lord Crane, this is Peter Janossi, and Mrs. Esther Gold, and you’ve already met Jenny Saint.”
Crane murmured courtesies and looked round at the urchin, realising that she must be the fourth of Stephen’s team of justiciars. He had heard a certain amount about them all, and had pictured something rather more impressive than the reality. Janossi looked mildly hostile; Saint had what Crane suspected was a permanent smirk. Mrs. Gold was looking at him with interest, her head slightly cocked.
Crane knew from Stephen that Mrs. Gold was the senior member of the team, and that she resented the common assumption that she was subordinate to the men. He addressed his next words to her. “Please don’t think this is vulgar curiosity, but if you want me to translate when someone arrives, it would help to know what I need to discuss. What’s the problem?”
The practitioners glanced at each other, quick fleeting looks. Esther Gold said, “Rats.”
“Rats?”
“Rats.”
“We got a rat problem.” Saint wore a malicious grin.
“I suppose you know you can hire a man and a dog in any pub in this city,” Crane offered blandly.
“It wouldn’t help,” Stephen said. “Joss, show him.”
Janossi put a toe under a fold of the sackcloth bundle and flipped it over. Crane walked over and looked at what lay within.
It was undeniably a rat. Its long yellow teeth were bared in death. Its eyes were blood-filled and bulging, which Crane attributed to Stephen, since he had seen a man dead that way at his hands. Its matted, dirty brown pelt was stiff with filth and dust, its claws were grey and scaly, its naked tail pinkish. It was a rat like any other, except in one respect.
It was about four feet long, not counting the tail, and would have stood perhaps a foot high at the shoulder.
“I see,” said Crane slowly. “No, I don’t suppose a terrier would help, would it. Did you say rat, Mrs. Gold, or rats?”
“Rats.”
“That’s not good.” Crane stared down at the monster. “How many?”
“Don’t know,” said Stephen. “At least twenty. And they appear to be normal rats apart from the size, so the answer to ‘how many’ is, for all we know, ‘twice as many as yesterday’. It’s been a busy morning,” he concluded casually and met Crane’s eyes for a second.
“You needn’t let it concern you.” Mrs. Gold spoke kindly but firmly. “We’ll deal with this. Just help us speak to the practitioners here, and that will be all we ask of you.”
Janossi nodded reassuringly. Saint smirked. Stephen’s gaze skittered up to the ceiling.
“Thank you,” Crane said pleasantly. “Tell me, what makes you think this is a Chinese problem?”
“How do you mean?” asked Stephen.
“Why Limehouse, why shamans? Are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“Why wouldn’t we be?” demanded Janossi.
“Someone’s coming,” said Esther Gold, and they all looked round as a fat, elderly Chinese man bustled in.
“Ah!” he shouted. “Bamboo!”
Chapter Six
Crane folded his arms and glared at Li Tang. He had known the man casually for many years in Shanghai, certainly well enough for Li to use the old nickname that had once been so appropriate for an extraordinarily tall and thin youth. He had met him frequently in the last few months. They had ongoing business dealings. There was no reason at all for Li Tang to be utterly, uncompromisingly unhelpful.
“Why are you being such a complete bastard, my friend?” he enquired in a low voice.
Li Tang didn’t respond to that. His face was stony.
“No shaman may be seen,” he repeated for about the thirtieth time.
“By us or by anyone?”
“No shaman may be seen.”
“Has Rackham been around?” Crane asked, drawing a bow at a venture.
Li Tang shrugged, apparently unmoved by the mention. “He wouldn’t make a difference. No shaman may be seen.”
“Since when are you a shaman’s apprentice?” Crane enquired. “Don’t you have other things to do than polish their rice bowls and make their appointments? Are you renouncing the world and your belly?”
“I speak with authority.” Li Tang glowered at him.
“You speak with authority for shamans?” Crane raised his voice for the benefit of their audience, which currently numbered about eight Chinese as well as the British practitioners. “You decide who gets to see a shaman?”
Li Tang looked daggers at that. “I speak with authority.”
“What are the names of your shamans?”
“That is not relevant.”
“Mr. Bo and Mr. Tsang, is it? What are their full names?”
“You may not see them.”
“I didn’t ask that. I asked you to say their names.” Crane dropped his voice low and saw the tiny twitch around Li’s eyes. “Why won’t you say their names?”
“My friend, this is not your business. So why don’t you fuck off?”
“I’m just a translator for the British shamans,” said Crane. “Why don’t you tell them to fuck off? I’ll watch. Even better, seeing as you and I are businessmen, why don’t we both go do some business and leave the shamans to their own devices?”
“Today we are both mouthpieces,” Li Tang countered. “And what my mouth is saying to you is that the shamans may not be seen. My advice, Bamboo, is that your ears should listen to what my mouth tells you.”
“I hear what you’re telling me, my fat friend,” said Crane. “I hear it very clearly indeed.”
He stalked back to the little group of justiciars.
“Well?” demanded Janossi.
“No play. Li Tang will be delighted to give you all possible assistance, short of a shaman, but I strongly suspect that assistance will be as much use as a glass hammer. They are not going to help.”
“Yeah?” said Saint. “Well, that’s their bloody problem, innit? Come on, we ain’t having that, are we?”
“Surely not.” Janossi looked to Esther and Stephen. “Let’s just go in. Follow the rats, find where they’re going and take it from there. Why the hell do we have to wait for permission in our own city?”
“We’ve spent years building a rapprochement with these people,” Stephen said. “You know what happened with Arbuthnot last summer. If we go in mob-handed now—”
“They’ll learn to cooperate next time!” Janossi interrupted, then wilted visibly under the look Stephen gave him.
Mrs. Gold was shaking her head. “I’m not seeing rapprochement here, Steph. And this problem is extending outside Limehouse, it’s not just about them.”
“Out of it, or into it?” asked Crane.
“What do you mean?”
“Are the rats coming from Limehouse, or emerging elsewhere and heading here?”
Esther Gold cocked her head to one side. “We don’t know where they’re coming from or going to. A number of them seemed to be coming here. We don’t know any more, because we haven’t managed to talk to any practitioners,” she added pointedly. “And I think we should now go a
nd look, Steph. I’m sorry if they don’t like it, but this is British soil, not Chinese, people have died, and if they won’t let us consult them, they don’t get to be consulted.”
Stephen gave a slight shrug of reluctant agreement and opened his mouth, and Crane said, “Just a moment.”
“What?” Stephen asked. He frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“I’m not sure,” said Crane. “Look, I wouldn’t presume to tell you your business—”
“Bloody hope not!”
“That’s enough, Saint,” said Stephen. “But?”
Crane cast a glance over at Li Tang. “But China is my business, and—I really think it would be advisable to smile, and nod, and leave.”
“What?” demanded Janossi.
Mrs. Gold looked as though she was running out of patience. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, your lordship, but there is a giant rat on the floor in here, and a lot more out there, which somebody needs to do something about.”
“I see the giant rat,” Crane said. “And so did Li Tang, and he wasn’t surprised to see it. I think you should leave now. I would.”
“Why?”
“Can we talk about this later?”
“No, why don’t you explain your reasoning now?” Esther’s voice was hard.
Crane gave her a humourless smile. “Because I’d rather not share it with our friends from the East.”
“But nobody here speaks English—” Esther stopped abruptly. “Really. I see.”
“Lord Crane,” Stephen interjected. “Is that your professional opinion, that we would be well advised to leave? Because this is not a trivial matter. There are politics, and dead people.”
“No, it isn’t trivial. And yes. That’s my professional opinion.”
Stephen contemplated the taller man for a moment. Then he nodded and turned to the others. “Alright. We’re going. Lord Crane, tell the Chinese…I don’t know, whatever you judge best. We will be back if need be.”
“What?” said Janossi incredulously, as Esther said, “Excuse me?”
“I’m declaring this, Es,” Stephen told her. “Follow my lead, please. We’ll discuss it later.”
Esther gave him a long, hard look and a reluctant nod. “Very well. Joss, get the rat.”
Faced down and unsuccessful, the little group trooped out through the maze of corridors and alleys, back into the only relative airiness of the Limehouse streets.
Crane came out last and lengthened his stride to catch up with Esther and Stephen, who were engaged in a low-voiced, furious argument.
“Because he’s not a fool, that’s why!” Stephen was snapping.
“And he’s not a practitioner either,” Esther hissed back. “So what the devil does he have to say to it that makes his opinion worth more than mine?”
“Excuse me,” Crane called, and both justiciars swung round. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s something that needs checking before we go further.”
“There is no we.” Esther spoke with barely restrained anger. “I appreciate your translation, but that is the limit of your involvement with this matter. This is not your business!”
“Just a moment, Es.” Stephen sounded tired and irritated. “What is it, Lord Crane?”
“Does anyone know a good vantage point for rooftops around here? A tall tower or church spire?” Crane looked at the blank faces and added, “I don’t know this part of Limehouse at all, and I want to see the roofs as soon as possible. There may not be much time.”
“For what?” demanded Janossi.
“To test a theory.”
“A theory?”
“Saint can get on the rooftops,” Stephen said. “What should she look for?”
“Oh, for—” Esther span away, obviously fighting down a surge of temper.
“Look for flagpoles, Miss Saint,” Crane told her. “Maybe one, possibly more. Standing proud of any nearby chimneys or walls, positioned to be visible. They may have several flags, they will definitely have long slender red pennants, and—can I borrow a pencil? Thanks. You may also see this symbol here on square red flags. When I say ‘this symbol’,” Crane added, with eight months’ painful experience, “I mean one exactly like that, rather than one which is also made up of some lines.”
Saint gave him a malevolent look, but took the paper on which he’d sketched the character and slouched off down a nearby alley. The rest of them moved to the street corner, out of the way of walkers and shufflers. Janossi glared at a beggar till he went away. Esther Gold looked after Saint, turned back to Crane with arms folded, and said, as one at the limits of her patience, “And may we know what flagpoles have to do with the serious problem that we’re supposed to be dealing with at this moment?”
Crane glanced round. “I’d rather this wasn’t overheard.”
Stephen made a quick twitch of his fingers. The noise of the street was abruptly muted. “It won’t be. Go on.”
“The flagpoles she’s looking for are ghost poles.” Crane settled his shoulders back against a sun-warmed brick wall which was nevertheless still slightly clammy with long damp. “It’s a very old shamanic practice. The idea is that when you die, while your body is prepared for burial, there is a chance that your soul will go wandering. If it can’t find its way back to your body, it might become a hungry ghost or even take over someone else’s body and become a chiang-shih, a vampire. So the ghost pole is put up where the body rests, to help your spirit find its way back.”
“And whose perturbed spirit is in danger of getting lost?” asked Stephen.
Crane gave him a swift smile. “That’s the thing. You see, ghost poles aren’t usual these days, even in China. I doubt many people around here get the standard funerary rituals, let alone the ancient trappings. But there is one class of person for whom you would be insane not to erect a ghost pole. Even if you wanted their death an absolute secret, even if you were modern and enlightened, even if you barely believed in spirits at all, you would put up a ghost pole for them.”
Esther was frowning slightly. “And they are?”
“Shamans,” said Crane. “Practitioners. The lost souls of shamans make vampire ghosts of appalling evil and depravity. No offence.”
There was a silence.
Janossi spoke first. “Are you pulling our legs?”
“No, he’s not,” Stephen said.
“You think the shamans are dead.” Esther unfolded her arms. “That’s why they wouldn’t let us see them?”
“Li Tang wouldn’t speak their names aloud, no matter how I pushed him, which is suggestive—it would attract the wandering soul’s attention to name them while they’re still unburied. And it is not Li Tang’s, or anyone else’s, place to control access to shamans. Shamans see whoever they want to. They don’t hide away. Everything about the conversation I just had was wrong—unless he was trying to conceal that the men we were discussing were dead.” Crane raised his hands. “I don’t know. This is guesswork. I might be mistaken. But in my view, if that business had been intended simply as a snub, it would have been delivered in a way that left no room for other interpretation. My gut feeling is that you couldn’t see the shamans because they aren’t there to see.”
“How recently would this have happened?” asked Esther.
Crane shrugged. “If the ghost poles are up, they’ll have died within the last three days. That’s all I can say. But, bear in mind, Li Tang wasn’t just trying to bluff me, he was speaking to be heard by the people around him. I suspect he’s under orders to keep it quiet. Are there other Chinese shamans here?”
“Not ones we’ve been permitted to meet. They don’t deign to mix with us, apparently, but it’s hard to say. Rackham was our only point of contact and he”—Stephen clearly changed what he was going to say—“he’s not available for discussion.”
“Here’s Saint,” said Esther.
The girl came sauntering round the corner a moment later, with a cocky little sneer, which evaporated as everyone turned to her simultaneously and Esther demanded, “Well? Flagpoles?”
Saint nodded. “Two of ’em, looking like he said. What’s this about?”
“Well, well, well.” Stephen’s eyes met Crane’s for a second, glowing warm, and flicked away again. “Nicely done, my lord. And what do we suppose they died of?”
“Rats,” said Janossi.
“Or a knife in the ribs,” Crane suggested.
Esther’s dark brows contracted. “Why?”
“It’s why I wonder if you’re looking in the right place. Look, will you all come back to my office? There’s something else that you may need to know, and it might take a little while to explain. And I think we could use Merrick, my man, at this time.”
“My man?” muttered Janossi.
“Be quiet, Joss,” said Esther. “Lord Crane, if Saint identifies the addresses marked by the flagpoles, might we—you—be able to find out from the Chinese about the deaths, if they are practitioners, and what killed them?”
“I can try.”
“Good. Saint, get back up there and find the flagpoles, and then meet us at Lord Crane’s office. Do not even think about trying to act alone. Lead on, your lordship.”
Chapter Seven
The building was empty except for Merrick when they arrived. Crane made brief introductions, and the two of them stood with the three justiciars in Crane’s office, looking at the dead rat Janossi had dumped on the floor.
Merrick poked it thoughtfully with the toe of his boot. “Giant rats. Sumatra business, is this, my lord?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“What’s Sumatra?” asked Janossi.
“A country, sir,” Merrick said politely. “One of the Sunda islands. Go south from Kampuchea, you can’t miss it. Is this to do with Mr. Willetts, my lord?”
“My question exactly.”
“Feel free to explain.” Stephen was sitting on the edge of the desk, legs dangling, and Crane was having a certain amount of trouble not thinking about his daydream of the other evening.